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I contemplate bailing—putting all this shit back and going home with my Ritz and that one lone Fig Newton.

But, then I decide—no.

I've done that before. Bailed.

But that's not who I am anymore.

Jace might not miss me—not the way that I miss him. But if anyone's worth figuring that out for, it's the one guy I haven't gone a day without thinking of. Whether or not I want to admit that.

My one regret.

Not the one who got away, but the one I chose to leave behind.

So this is it. I'm sticking to it.

I take one big, deep breath in and charge for the registers.

Come on, universe…

Do your thing.

11

Jace

We're down by one.

Two outs and the Huskies' pitcher's on fire.

It's not a sealed fate, but it's the last thing you want at the end of a tied series at home.

I step into the batter's box, tapping the dirt with the tip of my cleats—gloves tight, helmet snug, bat heavy on my shoulder. I swing once, twice, rocking with the weight before settling into position with my knees bent and eyes locked on the mound, blocking out the low hum of the crowd.

I take a deep breath, blowing it out slowly as I try to imagine what's coming. A fastball low and inside, a slider breaking late, down over the plate. I've seen Jimenez throw both a dozen times tonight, but which one comes next is anyone's guess.

He nods from the mound, winding up slowly, then sinking forward. I lock eyes on the ball before it even leaves his hand, my legs bending a fraction more, my grip tightening around the wood. The crowd fades, and the lights blur, until it's just me, the plate, and the laces spinning toward me.

I swing.

And it breaks the silence.

The crack of the bat still makes my stomach jump. And watching the ball soar through the air—farther and higher than even I thought it would—never gets fucking old.

I wait, my adrenaline high, the vibration still buzzing in my hands, and when it drops just behind the wall, my chest releases as the stadium erupts.

I immediately jog toward first, shooting two fingers up into the stands as Ruiz takes off toward second. I run past the base, faster than I need to, maintaining that pace as I relish the pounding beneath my feet.

I only start to slow down more after stepping hard on third, spotting the camera waiting for me—GCSN, maybe NSN or MLB TV. It makes no difference, really.

I point into it as it grows closer, my pursed lips dissolving into a smile as I do. I think of the fans at home watching—strangers, friends, family, the hockey boys checking highlights from the locker room. Dad floating on a ship somewhere, watching from the water.

I finally jog past home, spotting Ruiz standing there waiting for me, and that's when it happens. Just a flash—barely a split second—but for the first time in years, I wonder if it's possible she's watching, too.

Maybe at the nurses' station, catching it on a TV in the waiting room between patients. Maybe sitting on her couch in the building right across from mine.

Location doesn't matter.

What matters is how much I suddenly want it to be true.